


How far do the tattoos actually go?

by WellDoneBeca



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Blood and Injury, Curious Sam Winchester, Drinking, Drunken Flirting, F/M, Injury, Injury Recovery, M/M, Major Character Injury, Tattoos
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-27
Updated: 2018-05-27
Packaged: 2019-05-14 12:24:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,053
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14769557
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WellDoneBeca/pseuds/WellDoneBeca
Summary: When the Winchesters save you from a bad hunt and you end up needing Sam’s help stitching a very bad injury on your torso, part of your secret tattoos are exposed to his eyes.Now, the question is: How far do the tattoos actually go?





	How far do the tattoos actually go?

**Author's Note:**

> READ THIS, PLEASE  
> Alright, so... Tumblr has a glitch and I'm losing posts there. Now I'm posting as I write here, as a measure of security. Be ready for 5 things at once and two weeks without updates cause my creativity is kinda cray-cray sometimes. Sorry in advance. Please, try to leave a comment anyway. I don't get many of those and they mean a lot to me.

You panted in your spot, trying hard to keep yourself calm.

Sam and Dean… They were supposed to be there at any minutes. He  _needed_ to.

You were…. Well, say it was a tight spot was a bit of a euphemism. You were chained, with your hands behind your back, mouth taped and standing in a very –  _very -_ uncomfortable position.

The hunt had gone wrong, terribly wrong. You’d underestimated the number of djinn in the barn and just knew that if your Winchester friends didn’t show up quickly, you would be dead and gone.

As if your thoughts had summoned them, you heard the door being slammed open, and both the boys entered, holding their weapons.

“Took you long enough,” you rolled your eyes when Dean untapped your lips and he rolled his eyes.

“I can leave you here if you are complaining.”

“Shut up,” you groaned.

* * *

 

You fell back on the bed with hump and a painful sight.

“ _Stupid_ _djinn_ _,”_ you hissed, trying hard not to groan loudly.

The hunt had ended up fine for the people you saved and the two Winchester brothers, but not for you. The last djinn had managed to cut a big part of your side and even the start of your thigh. You were sure your underwear was ripped as well, and, feeling how your black jeans were soaked with blood, you just knew the cut would need more than your pair of hands to fix.

“Sam,” you groaned, holding your side and getting up, walking to the door of your motel room, opening it. “Sam!”

A second later, the door beside yours opened.

“I need your help,” you said calmly and he frowned, walking after you to the room. “Shut the door behind yourself.”

She complied, confused, and you opened your jacket, just to reveal your white shirt damp and red with blood.

“Holy shit,” he let out a whisper, quickly walking to your bag and pulling your stitching kit and a bottle of whiskey. “Why didn’t you tell you were hurt?”

“I didn’t know it was so bad,” you rolled your eyes, taking off your shirt and his eyes instantly travelled your torso while his mouth hung open. “What?”

Sam stared at you for a moment and then looked back at the box.

“You gonna need to take off your pants,” he pointed.

You arched an eyebrow at him in return, groaning when you turned to the wrong side.

“At least buy me...” you took a long, painful breath. “...Dinner first.”

He just waited for a moment and you closed your eyes.

“Okay,” you swallowed saliva down. “Just turn around, I don’t want you looking at my southern regions.”

Sam shook his head, but face the wall while you tried your best to push down your pants and ripped underwear, pulling a sheet to cover your modesty as much as possible.

“Alright, Moose. I’m as butt naked as I can be without some drinks.”

Your friend turned to you, already armed, and sat on the bed.

You and Sam had met when you bumped into him and Dean – who was an old friend of yours – during a hunt a couple of years ago. Now, whenever they needed someone’s help, you were the second person they would call. You didn’t know the first, though.

“Drink this,” he offered the whiskey and you gulped it twice, closing your eyes, and he proceeded to clean around the injuries.

With each wipe of the towel, your tattoos came to view and his face changed in surprise.

“When did you get those?”

“Along with life,” you lifted your head to look at him and bit your lip when he reached out for the needle.

_Shit is getting real._

“ **Whatever you do, don’t move,** ” he instructed.

You took another big gulp of whiskey again and squeezed your eyes shut when he started stitching, from just under your ribs.

“That’s gonna hurt a lot,” he warned you, not stopping. “Sorry.”

“If those things didn’t kill me,” you started, moaning when he pinched your skin again. “I’m not gonna die from some stitching.”

He didn’t say more, just watching out for your reactions and closing your injury as best as he could.

The right side of your torso was covered in tattoos, protection symbols and creative ink alike.

“Is that a phoenix?” he questioned when he reached your hip, noticing how the tattoos continued to your butt and back thigh.

“Yep,” you hissed. “I almost died once. I deemed it fit.”

Sam smiled and looked at his hands.

“Well?” you tilted your head so you could see him. “Do you like it?”

He struggled to find words, and you chuckled.

“It’s...”

He was blushing. He was honestly blushing.

“It’s hot,” he whispered. “Very hot.”

You smirked.

“Give me 10 days,” you offered him. “And I’ll show you how far they go.”

Sam didn’t verbally respond, probably thinking it was a drunk joke, and chuckled.

“Alright, then,” he discarded the used material and closed your first aid box, putting it back inside your bag and taking note on his phone that you needed more antiseptic before offering you painkillers.

“I mean it, Sam,” you chuckled weakly, gulping them down and curling around your pillow.

You fell asleep, and Sam only chuckled, closing the door behind himself.

* * *

 

You removed the stitches slowly. Your wounds were closed and clean, a week and a half was enough time for your torso to look at least  _decent_ , at least from where you were looking in the mirror _._ You were staying in the bunker while you healed, Sam and Dean were too stubborn about you going out all stitched up and had insisted you’d stayed with them until you were better.

Now you  _were_ better and had a very important mission to conclude, so you put on a t-shirt and pulled your pants up, fixing your hair and leaving your room to walk to the library.

When your eyes crossed with Sam’s, you stood straight.

“Whatever you do, don’t move,” you let out.

He froze in his spot, worried, and you walked to him, leaning down and taking his lips in yours for full long seconds before stepping back and smirking.

“My offer is still up,” you smirked. “Do still want to know how far the tattoos go?”


End file.
